


Dinner

by PGT



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fantasy Racism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Nationalism, Trauma, implied alcholism, spoilers for episode 110
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:07:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26536300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PGT/pseuds/PGT
Summary: Dinner at Trent's from Wulf's perspective.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 90





	Dinner

Eodwulf makes no presumptions about Bren’s friends as he waits for their arrival. Master Ickithon’s table is as large as it’s always been, the mahogany wood stained almost black, each chair casting looming shadows on a red rug and slate stone floors. It is a rare evening that more than the first three chairs are filled. To anticipate guests-- true guests, not political allies or potential targets… He can’t decide how he feels about it. It’s been so long since he’s been allowed to feel, so long since he’s had to.

Then Bren showed up again. He was better at hiding it than Astrid was, but there was no true burial of those feelings. They were a trio, there had always been something missing after Bren’s... incident. 

He’s only caught glimpses. Heard tales. It’s hard to imagine that the man coming to dinner with them is the same boy he’d seen crying in the orange cast of his own home, alight with flames he’d raught. He’s kept that cleft chin though, even beneath a growing stubble. Kept his sharp nose, and those piercing blue eyes. The tales of this “Mighty Nein--” and he’s certain that it’s  _ nein _ , for there are only seven of them, and the wordplay is just one more knife cutting into the sealed pouch of memories-- they tell of a complete stranger. 

Caleb, he has to remember that. He’s Caleb, now.

“You’ve got that face,” Astrid murmurs, brushing her hand against his arm. It’s enough to stir him out of his thoughts. He forces his brow to smooth, his frown to flatten. “Just thinking.” He’s famous for that brooding expression, though it’s rarely interpreted as simply as thought. It gets a crowd cleared, gets words off a bitten tongue. Only Astrid truly knows how mundane it actually is.

There’s a hum of enchantments that indicate their arrival. The curl of Master Ickithon’s lip, even obscured as he peers into the fireplace, steels Eodwulf for the battle ahead. No, Bren is too smart to start a physical encounter, surely, but they are wizards. No conversation is without a winner and a loser.

Astrid looks like she might shatter if he addresses her. She’s been getting like that, lately. Ever since Bren talked to her… She hasn’t given any specifics, but something he said shook her.

The hall echoes with footfalls, and most remarkably, laughter. 

They file in, a myriad of colors and shapes and personalities far stronger than the academy ever afforded. His attention is immediately drawn to those with monster’s blood, a half orc, a tiefling, and a giantkin. Are they children of the Dynasty? How tied in with their enemies is Bren, truly? The bringers of peace, The Mighty Nein are called, but with so many foreign faces… Did they bring peace, or is the trap yet to be sprung?

Bren stands amongst them, a grown man. He’s still shorter than Eodwulf, and thin, but he’s filled his frame; no longer the pimple-faced teen he’d known, with thin wrists and showing ribs. His hair is long and tied neatly, though strands obscure his face, and he makes no attempt to hide the contempt in his eyes. It does not go unnoticed how his companions seem to follow him like guardians, a semicircle formed around him, a halfling woman and the tiefling at each side, the four taller figures shielding him from behind. Xhorhasian or not, his allies are no hired act.

Master Ickithon greets the assorted characters, waving a wrinkled hand towards the table. Eodwulf isn’t really listening, but he follows Astrid’s stride as a cue to sit, himself.

He pauses in his stride to watch as Bren stalks to the chair beside her. It is no wonder, though he can’t help feel a pang of jealousy, immediately followed by amusement. It is because of this that he does not notice the hushed whispers of the tiefling, and as he pulls his chair out from beneath the lip of the table he has to stop himself from sitting on top of the halfling, who seems to appear as if from nowhere. 

His friends are certainly a peculiar bunch. 

“Is this seat taken?” She asks, though there is no misunderstanding her ploy. They must know of Bren’s past, and for whatever reason, he is the one to take the brunt of their collected spite.

“Apparently it is.”

He doesn’t dare look towards the head of the table, as a child may seek the assurances of a parent. There is almost a comfort in the tether of sitting beside Master Ickithon, a tight leash. Forced away from him, he fears he may make mistakes. He pushes the chair in nonetheless. A minor inconvenience. At least now he can sit across from Bren.

Though as he drags the second chair out, it is clear his torment has not finished, as a woman of similar physique to his own steps forward. He clenches his jaw, feels his eye twitch.

“Thank you very much,” She has an accent that raises the hairs on his neck. 

He forces himself to remain calm. “Of course.”

“Eodwulf,” The tiefling chirps from the furthest chair, her accent light as if from the eastern coasts. Perhaps not a Xhorhasian after all. He does not ponder how she knows his name. “Wouldn’t you like to sit next to me?”

Before he can answer, another of the monsterkin steps up, and Eodwulf doesn’t even bother to take hold of the next chair.

His furred hands curl around the chair, stark against the dark wood. Though he pulls it against the rug it seems to make no sound, and he does not move to sit. “For you,” he gestures. The halfling seems disappointed that the charade has ended. 

Reluctantly, he sits. “Thank you.”

He is boxed in between the monster who acted kind, and the woman with a monster’s voice. Across from him is a dark skinned human with a brooding glare almost as bad as his own, the half orc beside her.

The doors close, and Trent starts talking. Eodwulf shuts his ears to it. His voice comes through anyway, and he realizes the man cannot be bothered to speak by tongue, favoring telepathy.

He focuses on a spot on the table, forces his shoulders from his ears, forces his fingers to uncurl from the arms of the unfamiliar chair. It is less worn down than the one he is used to. Colder.

He’s aware enough to nod as he is introduced. He hopes he looks more relaxed than he is. 

Ickithon is talking, Bren is scowling. It is the halfling that leads the other party’s voice, at first. “Many forces, but mostly justice?” He does not know what question she is answering.

Bren speaks, and his voice is a foreign thing, to hear in common. It helps bring out the distinction. This is not Bren, but  _ Caleb. _ “We wish to leave the world better than when we found it.”

His words are poised and calm, though there is fire behind his eyes as he looks at Master Ickithon. Truly  _ looks _ at him, defiant and bold. No, this is certainly not the same boy Eodwulf once knew. He is something more.

Every word exchanged is a drop on a scale, and Eodwulf knows better than to add his voice to the mixture. Caleb and Master Ickithon dominate the conversation, and there is comfort in how his friends seem unafraid to speak themselves, but equally allow Caleb to speak for himself.

They had protected him in the doorway. Here, they waited for his mark.

Astrid speaks, stammering and smiles, genuine enough to be mistaken for passion than for nerves. “Right, Eodwulf?”

Shit. “Indeed...” She had been saying how it was nice to meet them. “I’ve seen some of you at the sanatorium. Seems fate continues to draw us together. Perhaps The Matron has plans for us together, yet.”

Speaking of her manages to quell the tension in his chest. Fate, reason, inevitability. It is as the figure beside him seems to perk up that all benefits gained by mentioning her seem to wash away. Its ears move with a mind of their own as if a dog’s might, and those slit eyes contract. He is shorter than the creature, and it is not common that Eodwulf is made to feel small. “And you,” he tries to match Astrid’s polite smile, it feels wrong on his face. “What are you?”

It turns, and Eodwulf resists wincing at its gaze. “Vegetarian, so I hope the meal reflects that.” He thinks it must be smiling, though it seems almost predatory. Its friends laugh, and a bit of tension is dispelled from the room.

He looks away from the… man. He drops the smile. It is an odd thing to hear in this chamber, laughter. It falls sour on his senses. A child’s toy in the kitchen, something misplaced.

Caleb speaks again, and Ickithon. Eodwulf spares a glance at Astrid, though she only has eyes for Bren.

The man beside him speaks again, a denial of whatever Ickithon had been inquiring for. The tiefling had shut him down, too. Such odd people, to push back against his queries. 

The tiefling makes a joke, though he hadn’t caught it, and it doesn’t seem to fall correctly. 

The doors open, and Eodwulf is familiar enough with the process to lean back as platters glide from the entrance and find their places on the table. He can’t help but note that there are few dishes that don’t contain meat nearby. All the better for him, but he can’t help but imagine what the creature beside him may do.

He does not hesitate to stuff his napkin into his collar, taking from the nearest platter. With a mouthful of food, he can not be blamed for his silence. This is a dinner, he should be perfectly allowed to eat. 

The woman beside him follows suit, quietly taking her fill, not particularly choosy in what she takes. The giantkin folds his hands in his lap.

Caleb asks about the students. Ickithon brings up the recent loss. Eodwulf chews his steak. 

“How does he do that? He just said yes twice, that was amazing.” The giantkin raises a hand to scratch at his furred jaw, long fingers tipped with blunted nails, dirt packed beneath them. Only by following the motion does he notice the wooden spiral in the creature’s ear, reminiscent of a deity’s symbol. Notably, a god that is not legally worshipped within the empire. It is enough confirmation, between this and his bloodline, that the man comes from the Dynasty. With a quick glance, he notes a more elaborate symbol of Melora pinning the half orc’s cape. That made two, three with the woman at his right.

Caleb looks to him, and for a moment he panics, but there is nothing in his mouth to excuse silence. 

“A little more perspective from you, Wulf. How are things going?”

“At the moment it is not as busy. So I am enjoying a more relaxed schedule, for now.”

He can’t help but say it. “You look good.” Earnest. How healthy the man looks. Clean, confident. The image of Bren, hollow and shattered all those years ago, overlays the man before him, and he is happy to see how they refuse to align. 

Caleb’s smile is stiff, solemn. “It’s a wonder what travel will do, some sun on your back.”

“When the war was a bit hotter than it is now, were you very busy? Eod… Wulf?” The halfling struggles with his name, though she has an Emperial accent. She’s simply not Zemnian. 

“Not any busier than you are, apparently.”

“But were you on the front lines?” They both have to lean to see eachother, with the paler woman between them. He tries not to focus on her. 

“I am not a front line sort of fighter, I have different skills.” He gives that half-smile again. Still feels off. “More of a scout, if you will.”

“Did you go into enemy lines and go on missions and things? Exciting things?”

He almost hopes she’s simply a curious citizen. Her company indicates otherwise. “Plenty of exciting things.”

“Like what?” Her tone is sharp, accusatory.

He grits his teeth, but Bren pipes up. “I am curious, like Veth,” that must be the Halfling's name. “I missed a year or two, what have you two been filling your time with?”

Eodwulf looks to Astrid, her narrowed eyes giving a clear enough statement:  _ only say enough. _ He looks back with resolve. “We’re doing what we do best, Bren. Ensuring history walks the right path.”

The tiefling speaks, but seems to switch targets halfway through her question. Something about Astrid’s hair. She takes the helm on her questions, for which he is grateful. Too many monsterkin have set their eyes on him at this point.

He takes the chance to drink his wine. It’s weak, but he doesn’t risk giving away his temperament by drinking more than a mouthful. He’s inclined to pull his flask, but not with Master Ickithon present. 

Astrid dares to say she misses Bren--Caleb… whichever she sees him as. It brings back the tension. Eodwulf tries to shut it out, waiting for the tension to pass. It doesn’t. Eodwulf eats another bite of steak, but it tastes like ash in his mouth.

Master Ickithon brings up the asylum. “I know you hate me Bren, hate what I put you through. And I accept those feelings, for it was a hard choice for me to make. What I did though, I did out of love.”

The tiefling makes a noise in her throat that Eodwulf has to stop from imitating. For though Master Ickithon speaks to Bren, it digs into old wounds of his own Eodwulf had thought buried.

Astrid’s face shows the same goes through her mind. 

“You will have to walk me through the logic of this long con, because I do loathe you. Deeply. But you do nothing flagrantly, everything is very careful. So how would you hope to use me as a tool?”

“This isn’t to use you as a tool, Bren. There isn’t a word I could say that you would find yourself able to believe.”

“It is hard to forget the past.”

Master Ickithon still speaks to Bren. Wulf still feels his own answers budding, were he so bold as to voice them. Bren does what he never could, what Astrid never could. Ickithon almost seems proud to be hated. And yet it gives him no greater courage to show his own hatred for the man.

“It took that path of pain to accomplish what this is.”

Caleb holds his gaze. “Do you think that my mother and father, our mothers and fathers, and children, should serve as grist for the mill? In this way?”

It’s been a long time since he wondered, was it necessary, what he’d done? All the lives he’d ended? It was easier to ignore. Death is Inevitable. He finds the chain at his neck, rolls the cool metal between his fingers.

Ickithon almost sounds mournful in his reply. “Whatever it takes to keep the people of this empire safe. The wants of one do not outweigh the wants of many.”

Of course. He joins in Ickithon’s sentiment. “Our parents made a sacrifice, like any soldier does on the battlefield.” 

If it were not true, his life would be a lie. He does not let himself consider that his parents were not soldiers, that their blood was not spilled by the enemy. He takes another drink.

Caleb’s gaze is firm. “If we cannot protect our own, then all of it is a failure. Why did we serve with such vigor if not to protect?”

_ I don’t know. _

“So you send me off like a wind-up clockwork toy, to serve the Empire. Am I right? What if the thing to do now is to supplant you, to pull you up like a weed, and do better? Are you comfortable with that idea?”

Eodwulf can hear in his voice that given the chance, Bren would do it. He finds a glimmer of hope in that, swaddled by dread. 

“I would love nothing more.”

Caleb turns, facing Eodwulf. “If he is out of the picture, and you,” He faces Astrid, “and you, and I carry the torch forward, we mangle more children to feed the fields of Wynandir?”

He doesn’t trust himself to answer. Astrid takes the reins. “If you were who we were charged to, then we do as you say. If you want to bring more into this fold, we will. If you want it to end, that is your command.”

“What about you, though?” It is as if everyone else is a spectator, and the dialogue becomes theirs alone. Eodwulf can only watch.

“What about me?” Astrid squints, peering into Bren’s earnest gaze.

“When we spoke last, I had the impression that you were being groomed for this seat.”

_ Shit. _ The stage breaks, and Astrid stiffens. She looks to Trent, and Eodwulf can't help but look at him, too, like a child caught with one too many sweets. 

She looks back to Bren, eyes pleading. “My ambitions and the paths laid before me are not always congruent, Bren.” 

Eodwulf holds his breath. Caleb seems to get the idea, for whatever it is worth.

Trent grins, And it’s as if there are no secrets to hide, for how could one hide anything from him?

“Any man of my position assumes that everyone I keep close is just waiting for me to turn my back. Every person in power knows that feeling, lives by it. It is the rare one that gets to choose. I just hope you don’t disappoint me, Bren.”

They exchange words. Eodwulf just tries to catch his breath. He can see Astrid’s knuckles are white against the arms of her chair, head bowed, eyes glossy.

“I have dreamed of murdering you with my bare hands many nights, so I hope it is not just flowery language you throw around the dinner table, Master Ickithon. This country could do better. It could do it with a little less blood. Everyone at this table knows that struggle is inherent to life. But this way is not the only way.” Though he speaks to Trent, it is clear who his words are for. His eyes flicker to Astrid, And the words settle in Eodwulf’s stomach like marbles of lead. Just moments ago he’d thought this man a traitor, a man completely separate from the Bren he’d known. A traitor? No, as much as Bren, Caleb was a patriot. More than any of them ever dared to be. 

Trent folds his fingers together. “Take care of yourself, all of you. For the struggle never stops. If you don’t want bloodshed that doesn't mean that every other person that wants what you have doesn’t. History and mortal nature prove this time and time again. If you are not the first to cut, you are the first to receive the blade. I’ve spent my life bearing knives, that’s how I’ve lived this long, Caleb Widogast.”

The words that once would have steeled Eodwulf seem to fall flat. 

The conversation falls to politics, to the past, but he’s lost in thought. It’s like a breeze in a stale room, stirring the dust of contentment. For the first time in a decade, change seems within reach. 


End file.
